The room was clean, smelling of lavender and antiseptic.

A security guard stood outside the heavy wooden door, his radio crackling occasionally.

Arthur sat in the armchair by the window, his laptop open on his knees.

“The transfer of the Prescott Global offshore accounts is nearly complete,” Arthur said, his eyes on the screen.

“And the ledger?” I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“It is in a safe deposit box,” he said. “The federal prosecutors have already requested a copy.”

My phone sat on the bedside table.

The screen remained dark, but my mind kept returning to Whitaker’s final words on the phone.

I picked up the remote and turned on the small television mounted on the wall.

The local news was showing a live feed of a highway overpass.

A black sedan was crushed against a concrete pillar, its front end completely demolished.

“A single-vehicle accident on I-94 has claimed the life of a prominent Chicago physician,” the reporter said over the footage.

My stomach tightened as the camera zoomed in on the license plate.